


I Fall Through the Cracks Until You Catch Me

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: holmestice, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Not mine, no money. A million and a half thanks to the team that made this possible - AnnieTalbot, Bluestocking79, Machshefa, Mundungus42, and Pyjamapants.</p><p>Written for the holmestice summer exchange where the request was for some form of Lestrade/Sherlock – perhaps that Lestrade was the one who took Sherlock out of his chemical dependency. This ended up being quite a bit more complex than I had first intended, and to date has been one of the most challenging writing projects I've taken on.</p></blockquote>





	I Fall Through the Cracks Until You Catch Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).



Greg was happy, not for the first time that day, that he had a strong stomach: the room stank of urine and cigarettes.

The lad kneeling before him was bleeding from an impressive cut on the temple. The blood dripped down his cheekbones, gathered in droplets on his chin, and splattered down his chest and tattered white shirt, whose neckline sagged nearly to his sternum.

"Boss-man thought you might enjoy this," Sweeny growled as Greg frowned at the boy. "He's pretty bent and would be a perfect gift for you, boss thought. He'd be good at… you know. You did a right job on that copper sniffing around here and all…"

Greg grimaced at Sweeny. The "copper" Greg had "done a right job on" was currently listening to the entire conversation, thanks to the bugs he and Greg had placed the evening previous. _Thank God for technology_ , he thought. One more night and this nightmare would be over.

And he could leave the fucking Drugs Squad and find a nice soft spot in the Murder Division.

The lad sniffed, a horrible, rattling sound.

"Yeah, great." Greg took a long drag on his cigarette and dropped it, crushing it out with his heel. He made himself walk over to the boy. He forced his fingers underneath his chin, as Sweeny barked with laughter.

"Careful he don't bite you. His dealer had to give him that. Nearly bit his thumb off, he did."

"What's his name?"

"Name?" Sweeny asked, incredulous. "He don't have a name."

"No, of course not."

He wouldn't. He was just another junkie, another wasted, worthless life.

Greg forced the lad's head up.

In the dim light cast by the overhead bulb, the boy looked unearthly. Fucking looked like an angel, all pale skin and eyes and dark hair. _Like Isaac_.

His eyes were unfocused—either from the blow to the head or the drugs, Greg wasn't sure which—as the blood from the cut trickled down the side of his face. Snot gathered above his lip and he sniffed again. _Lovely_.

****

 _Fucking staring at me. Sweeny thinks he'll be able to watch me suck him off. Prematurely grey. He probably wants to hit you, to fuck you fuck you hard make you beg for it Pervertpervertpervertpervert. No, stop. Look. He doesn't. He wants to… fuck he wants to SAVE me? Save me save me save me save me._

****

Greg's stomach tightened. Was this how Isaac had looked before… No. No, not now. He caught his breath. _Not now_ , he thought. _Dear God, not now. Not in front of Sweeny_.

"Get me a damp cloth, clean, and some bandages," Greg barked, struggling for control. "He's no good to me if he's bleeding all over the damn place."

"Pretty little thing, ain't he?" Sweeny asked. "I reckon he'll clean up nice and proper for you."

The lad sniffed again and slid his gaze, suddenly in focus, to Greg's. Sharp, cutting, pale blue-grey, _intelligent_. Greg's stomach lurched. The boy _knew_. He fought down the rising surge of panic that his cover was blown, that it was all over, that he was about to lose it, that he could lose it all. And then the light faded just as quickly as it had come.

****

 _Thirty-eight, hasn't hit forty yet. Not a hard case. Fuck. He's thinking. What's he thinking. Buzz, buzz little brain. Stare back. Focus. Fucking focus. What do you want to see. It's all here. Make me suck you. Get off on that. Spray your cum on my face. Be careful I don't bite your cock off. PervertpervertpervertpervertsavemepervertpervertstopstopstopstopMycroftsavemenononono._

****

"Yeah, he'll be just the thing," Greg said. There didn't seem to be enough air in the room. "Not a girl, but…"

"You want him here?" Sweeny's voice brought him back to earth. Or at least the hell-on-earth that was the warehouse.

"Nah," Greg said, making a great show of adjusting his belt, "I'll do him over somewhere more—" he paused and leered at Sweeny "—comfortable. For me."

Sweeny chuckled, and Greg was thankful he'd already beat the living shit out of their snitch – anything to enhance his reputation as a bloodthirsty sadist, right? He tried not to think about the damage he'd done to his colleague. To himself. Not when his own life was at stake.

The lad didn't flinch as Sweeny slammed the door behind him.

****

 _Ouch, door. Ouch. Sweeny's afraid of him. Good. Not good. Good for him. Not for me. Who's him? Fuck if I know. What does he want? He's looking at me again. Biting his lip. Uncertain. No. Recognition. He sees somebody. Not me. Nobody sees me. Nobody saw me. Trevor. Seb. Mummy. Why Mummy? Not now, not now. Think, focus. Blood. Sniff. Stomach. Organs. Fire. Lasers. Edges. Sharp edges. If he lets me go, I'll slice him open. Watch him bleed. Blood. Blood is thicker than… Family._

****

"Come on then," Greg said, pulling the lad to his feet. "You're coming with me."

****

 _Feet slippery. Legs. He's got nice hands. Like his hands on my cock. Cock, cock, cock. Poofter for certain. Returning sensation in my hands. Feet not… No. Feel that? Feelfeelfeelfeelfeel. Stopstop. No, he's undoing your hands. Feelfeelfeelfeel. He's a cop! Fuck. His wallet. Hold still… Here. His actual wallet. Not too clever, this one. Save it for later. Find time. Save it. Save me. No. Yes. Pleasepleasepleaseplease. Mummy, I'm scared. He's… nononononono._

****

The boy sagged against him, smearing blood on Greg's face and shirt. His hands flopped onto Greg's hips as they struggled to remain upright. Greg was hit by a wave of the stench of cigarettes, urine, fear, and patchouli.

"Oh, for the love of… Come on, Sunshine."

The plan had been to take the boy to A&E, get him patched up, and take him into custody until somebody could come 'round and collect him.

****

 _Focus. Car. He's taking you away. Air. Fresh. Breathe. Focus. THINK. He wants to take you to A &E. Why? He's a cop. That's why. Cop. Fuck. Shit. No, easier to get out of this. He'll arrest me. No. Yes. Cop. Cop. Focus, focus, focus. Fog's clearing. Coming down. Shit. Want. Need. No. Focus._

****

But, bundled into Greg's battered car, the lad turned to him and said,

"'l be fine… just take me home."

"Not going to happen," Greg said. "Hospital for you."

****

 _No. They'll come for me there. Mycroft. Fucking Mycroft. He'll find me. Even if I'm… Not that. Not… Car behind us. Sweeny. Them. We're in trouble._

****

"No! No… they'll…" The lad licked his lips. "They'll find me."

Greg looked in his rearview mirror. With a chill, he recognized the car behind him.

Sweeny _was_ tailing him.

Fuck. It was over. And Greg didn't have a phone. Or a radio. Or even a fucking smoke-signal. He was blown. And it was only a matter of time.

Greg sighed and turned the car in the general direction of Finsbury Park. _Might as well go home_ , he thought. _If they're going to kill me tonight, might as well be in my own home. Get on Mrs Thingummy Upstairs's tits, at any rate_.

* * *

 

The first thing Greg did when he got the boy to his flat was clean him up in his bathroom and allow him to use the loo. Then he sat him down in a chair and shoved a bowl of hastily microwaved soup in front of him.

"Eat."

The lad glared at him.

"Eat or talk to me. What's your name?" Greg folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the counter. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray near his elbow. The boy's eyes darted to it.

"No," Greg said. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock? Sherlock what?"

The only answer Greg received was a middle finger.

"Okay, then eat. This isn't difficult."

Sherlock glared at him and said,

"What _is_ difficult to fathom is why an cop would spend so much time sucking up to toads like Sweeny and Rossman. They're small time drug-lords, not exactly kingpins.

"Or is it because you think, in your limited little brain, that you can use them to get to Ryder and his Colombian overlords?"

It took all of Greg's self-control not to backhand the little twat across the face.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his look of smug triumph marred only by a quick sniffle of his perpetually running nose.

"Shows how little you know," Greg snarled, reaching for the bottle of whisky on the countertop. "Sweeny and Rossman aren't my targets." There was little point in denying the cop thing. Obviously Sherlock had observational skills that Sweeny and Rossman lacked, and who knew, perhaps the little shit could be useful. "And they aren't small time drug-lords, or even dealers. They're Ryder's runners. You're lucky he wasn't there tonight."

Sherlock sniffed dismissively, poking at the rapidly cooling bowl of tinned soup.

"You should be thankful," Greg insisted. "Ryder's not nearly as nice as I am. You'd have been tortured and then handed over to somebody else. Somebody not me. Somebody who…"

Sherlock interrupted.

"Somebody who isn't still in mourning for his lover. A lover whom he never talked about publicly because being gay is bad enough, but being a gay copper is about ten times worse. You're bent, Lestrade, and you had trouble with it even when you were fucking him, but now that he's dead—and he died without you having a chance to kiss him good-bye—it's even worse.

"Let me guess: you didn't even attend the funeral because you didn't want his mum to find out that there wasn't a 'girlfriend' at all but a boyfriend, instead."

Greg stepped forward and backhanded him across the mouth.

****

 _Got that one right. Too bad he's still in love with him. Stupid place to store a memento – the bathroom – why not just leave it out for all the world to see. Looks like me. Pale. Dark hair. But not me. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You're stupid. Stop it. You liked that. You want it again. Please. No. Fuck, stop thinking, stop. Need another hit. Hit. Hit. Hit me instead. Function, damn you, brain, work._

****

Sherlock just laughed and dabbed at his lip. And then he sniffed. The harsh florescent light of the kitchen cast deep shadows beneath his cheekbones.

"Well, thanks," he said. "Thanks for the soup. I'll be leaving now." And he rose to go.

Some instinct – the instinct that had kept him alive these past three months, probably – made Greg clamp his hand down on Sherlock's shoulder.

"You're not going anywhere, Sunshine," he said in his best beat-cop voice. "What you've failed to notice, probably because you're still high as a fucking kite, is that the flat is being watched. By Ryder. And the minute you leave, what do you think's gonna happen to you?"

Beneath his hand, he could feel Sherlock stiffen.

Point taken. Good.

"Yeah," Greg said, following up on his advantage. "So you're gonna eat the fucking soup, and then you're going to sleep it off. You understand?"

Sherlock nodded and bent his head, picking up his spoon and shoveling the now completely cold soup into his mouth.

Greg lit another cigarette and took a pull on the whisky straight from the bottle.

He knew he probably shouldn't be drinking, but the tension of having Ryder's men watching the flat every night was starting to wear on him.

Sherlock finished the soup.

Greg pointed to the lumpy sofa in the sitting room.

"You can sleep there," he said. "I'm going to shower. And when I get out, I expect you to be fast asleep, understand? Not out in the street bleeding from a stab wound because you blew it and thought you were fucking invincible. Because at that point, the entire Metropolitan police force would be down on this place and you wouldn't have a hope in hell of surviving."

Sherlock shrugged and collapsed onto his back onto the sofa.

Greg watched him for a good five minutes before he was satisfied that Sherlock was not going to bolt the minute his back was turned.

Greg set the burglar alarm that Isaac had insisted he install. Greg had thought it was ridiculous – who would rob a member of the Metropolitan Police Drugs Squad – but Isaac had been adamant. This way, Greg would know if the little shit decided to risk his life. Or if Sweeny and Rossman decided to kill him in his bed. At least he'd have some warning.

Although why the fuck Greg should even care anymore, about the lad – about anything – was beyond him.

The spray of the shower was hot and punishing as Greg leaned against the tiles, trying to wash away to strain of the day – of being undercover, of dealing with Sherlock whatever-his-name-was, of the memories of Isaac.

He was not stupid. He had known better than to take Sherlock home with him.

But really, what else was there that he could have done? Forced Sherlock to suck him off in front of Sweeny?

Christ, the kid was probably only barely eighteen.

The portion of Greg's brain that wasn't consumed by guilt and worry and anger reminded him of Sherlock's long, lithe form. Of his absolutely stunning neck, and those lovely hands that Greg would, in his more base moments, love to see wrapped around his cock.

"Oh, fuck me," Greg grunted. How the hell had he got in so deep? It was meant to be his last night, dammit. Tomorrow… tomorrow, the raid. The bust. He'd be free of this shite.

The whoosh of cool air from the hall made him start.

"Wouldn't you rather fuck me?" Sherlock asked.

Later on, Greg would be thankful that he was drunk enough not to start violently at Sherlock's intrusion.

Later on, Greg would berate himself for getting this drunk in the first place.

Sherlock's breath was hot on his neck as he wrapped his hands—oh, God, those hands—around Greg's cock and the rest of his body around Greg.

"Wouldn't you rather fuck me?" Sherlock asked again, pressing against him, sliding his already hard cock against Greg's arse. "I'd moan for it. That's what Sweeny wanted to see, you know, wanted to watch you fuck me into the pavement. He's probably sitting in that battered Cortina across the road imagining this now. But you don't care about that because all you're thinking about is how good my hands feel."

Greg turned and pushed Sherlock against the cold tiles of the shower. He shuddered.

"If I do," he demanded. "Will you shut up?"

Sherlock smiled and kissed him.

****

 _This IS what he wants. Perfect. Read him. Still good. Still great. Still can do this. And I want him. Handsome arse, thick cock. Lovely skin. Definitely gay. Called it. Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes. Fuck me, fuck me now, fuckme fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme._

****

Greg came to his senses and backed off. Panting, gasping for air, he turned off the shower and leaned out of it, yanking a towel off of the bar. It came off with a snap of fabric. He ran it over his hair, feeling the water drip down his spine, and spun, throwing it at Sherlock.

"Get out," he growled.

Sherlock laughed at him.

"I'm not going to fuck you, Sunshine," Greg said. "You're gonna dry yourself off and get out of my bathroom and back onto your sofa."

Sherlock pouted, pulling at his softening cock with those beautiful hands, all the while watching Greg with those bright, focused _remember he's still high, he's just a lad, he's not your… he's not Isaac._ eyes.

Greg caught his breath.

No.

"Now." He stepped out of the shower and bent down and grabbed his y-fronts, stepping into them and jerking them up over his hips. He ignored the small whinge from the shower. Sherlock slunk to the tiles, legs splayed out in front of him.

****

 _What's he doing? Why not? Why'd he stop? He wants this. I want…_

****

"Let's go," Greg said, stepping back into the shower and pulling at Sherlock until he was in a more-or-less upright position. He knelt behind him and yanked the towel from Sherlock's unresisting grasp. Sherlock's head sagged against Greg's shoulder, baring his long neck. Greg tried to pretend he didn't see the bruising at the throat.

The boy, the lad, _Sherlock_ stank, and Greg sighed as he turned the water back on. Apparently sponging the snot and blood off of his face wouldn't suffice.

Sherlock groaned.

"Stay with me, Sunshine," Greg grunted, reaching up for the soap and shampoo.

"You wanna know how I knew all that, don'tcha?" Sherlock spluttered under the water as Greg began to scrub at him, ignoring, or trying to ignore, the feel of smooth skin beneath his hands and his own helpless erection pushing against his y-fronts.

"Yeah, sure. Tell me." Greg lifted Sherlock's arm and ran the soap underneath. "Move." He shifted him to the left.

****

 _G'wan, you little freak, show him what you can do. Maybe that stiffy'll come in handy after all. Freak. Freak of the mind. Freak of nature. Tell him, tell him and he'll fuck you. Fuck you rotten like you deserve. Bad boy. Freak. Pervert. TELL HIM._

****

"You should keep a better eye on your wallet," Sherlock slurred under the spray. "You were clever enough to remove your warrant card, you're not a total idiot, but behind your fake driving license is your blood donor card. Not smart. It has your real name on it: Gregory Simon Lestrade." Sherlock sniffed.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And then, tucked away in the back of the billfold is a picture of you with a man. You're embracing one another like colleagues or even friends, but the looks on his face and yours tell much more. Plus you're both wearing matching necklaces. Something you're not wearing now.

"Not a great stretch, that – you wouldn't wear personal jewelry on a case – but it's not anywhere in your flat, either. At least visible. It's in a box in your medicine chest. An unlikely place for something so valuable. Except there's two of them, and you're afraid somebody's going to find it. So, someone who either left you or died. My money's on died.

"Add that to the fact that you were both cops – it shows in the picture—and it's not hard to conjecture what happened to him. And to you."

****

 _Now he's gonna hit you again, you little freak. You know you want that, too, the pressure building. He wants to hit you and fuck you in the arse like you deserve for telling him about his lover. Wants to punish you. And you want him to. Pervert. Freak. Pervertpervertpervertpervertpervertpervertpervertpervert pervertpervert_

****

Greg felt the bile rising in his throat.

"You got anything else?" he asked, gripping the flannel so hard his knuckles were white.

Sherlock laughed and shifted so he could lean back against the tiles, tilting his head to avoid the spray with Greg crouched in front of him.

"Lots more, but wouldn't you rather fuck me instead of hear me talk?" He reached out his hand to grasp Greg's cock.

****

 _I was right. He does want me. Pervertpervertpervertpervert. No, stop. He doesn't he wants to… fuck he wants to SAVE me. Save me save me save me save me. High's receeding. Focus. No, don't want to. Stomach… gonna throw up._

****

Greg batted his hands away from the soaked front of his y-fronts.

"Come on," he said. "Up you get." He hauled Sherlock to his feet, draped him in a towel and began to dry him off.

"You're no fun anyway," Sherlock groaned, leaning against Greg, helping not at all in the struggle to get them dry.

"Nope, no fun at all," Greg agreed, trying to keep the banter light. Running hands over another man's body was bad enough, especially another man who… When was the last time he'd managed to get a leg over? Not since… not since Isaac, and their last night together… Greg pushed the thought out of his mind.

"'s too bad you want me," Sherlock said, his knees suddenly buckling as the two men collapsed to the floor. "You might be…" But whatever Sherlock was about to say was lost as he was noisily sick all over Greg's closed toilet lid.

Greg sighed heavily and wiped down Sherlock's face and arms and chest. Sympathy, empathy, _something_ he didn't want to examine too closely uncurled in his chest.

"Come on, Sunshine," he said, "let's get you to bed."

Sherlock spent the remainder of the night vomiting into a bin by the side of Greg's bed and shaking uncontrollably while Greg held him and cleaned him up as best he could.

* * *

In the early morning, Sherlock's symptoms had subsided, and he bullied Greg into bringing in tea and Greg's cigarettes. They lay together, smoking and squabbling peaceably about music and crime and Greg, Sherlock dressed in a borrowed pair of pyjama bottoms, his curly dark hair pillowed on Greg's chest.

"I'm twenty-four," Sherlock confessed. "And it's all just so _dull_."

****

 _Why open up? He's going to hit me again. No… He won't. He misses his lover. Gary? No. Harry? No. Peter? No. Won't ask him. Not yet. God, he thinks he can save me the way he didn't… Why's nobody wanting to save just me? Mycroft. Mummy. . . Why am I not worth it?_

****

Greg's heart tightened. What had this wretched, beautiful creature been doing? For how long had he been walking that fine line between disaster and death? And what drove him? Boredom? Decidedly not normal, though. Normal people got bored and turned on the television. They didn't get high and provoke their dealers and wind up in bed with a bent cop. Greg grimaced.

"Not exciting enough?" he asked. "I'd hardly think that cocaine is a decent substitute."

"It's not," Sherlock mumbled. "But it's all I have."

"Yeah, but surely there are other things."

"Please."

"Well, like science, or …"

"Police work? _Boring_."

"It's … okay, yeah," Greg agreed. "It can be pretty boring. But there are times… problems…"

"You're an undercover drugs cop, and not a very good one, if I was able to see through you," Sherlock argued.

"It's only because…"

"Of your boyfriend, right."

"He's not… he wasn't my boyfriend."

"Whatever."

"Look…"

"So you blunder about, completely out of your depth, ignoring what's right in front of your face, trying to bring petty thieves and drug dealers to justice."

"I wouldn't call what they did to you 'petty'," Greg said, running his hand through Sherlock's curly locks.

Sherlock grunted and stole the fag from Greg's other hand.

"Whatever. The point is that even with the most _mundane_ problems, you lot are completely incompetent."

"And you could do better?"

Sherlock grunted and handed him back the cigarette.

"Of course. I could solve every one of your silly little problems in my sleep."

"You're that good?" Greg laughed.

"I'm that great," Sherlock said simply.

"You're mad," Greg replied, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. Sherlock hummed and shifted beside him. A small spark of an idea flickered in Greg's brain.

"That's all, Sunshine," Greg whispered in his ear. "That's all I'm gonna do to you." He stubbed out the cigarette and turned out the light.

He fell asleep with Sherlock on his chest, his arm around him.

But when he awoke, Sherlock was gone.

Greg spent a good twenty minutes in a state of panic as he searched the flat for signs that Sherlock had rifled through it, stolen anything.

He hadn't. The flat was in the same condition it always was. Even the photograph of him and Isaac that he kept hidden in his sock drawer was untouched.

Greg stared at it for what seemed a long time.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the smiling faces of the men in the photo.

* * *

When he opened his door, he received one of the nastiest shocks in his life.

Sprawled across his doorstep, bleeding from a single gunshot wound to the back of the head, lay Sweeny.

Greg's heart stopped. If this wasn't a warning, he didn't know what was.

At that moment, his mobile started to ring, and his day became appreciably worse.

* * *

Sick with worry, Greg spent the day running back and forth between Rossman and Ryder and his contact with the Met, hoping beyond all hope that Sherlock hadn't managed to get himself killed by walking out of his flat at God-knew-when that morning.

Rossman and Ryder's reactions to Sweeny's death were nothing if not predictable. The fact that Sweeny had been found on _Greg's_ doorstep convinced them that their entire operation had been blown. Fortunately, Greg had amassed enough evidence against them _and_ Ryder's bosses to initiate the bust and subsequent arrests.

He watched with no small amount of pleasure as the two men were led away in handcuffs late that afternoon. There would be a mountain of paperwork, but at the moment, he had to find Sherlock.

Greg spent the late afternoon and evening scouring all of the places he could think to find him, failing with each bolt-hole and corner.

Until he came home and found Sherlock fast asleep in his bed. It was absolutely ridiculous. And completely unfair.

"Wake up, Sunshine." Greg threw a shoe at him.

Sherlock snorted and sat up. Sniffling.

****

 _Warm, safe, cold, no. Hot. Where am I? Shoe? GregGregGregGregGregGregGreg. I came back. He came back. See me? I came back came back for youyouyouyou. Love you, need you. Need me. Savemesavemesaveme, fuckme, nononono, you won't… focus, speak, words, out._

****

"What the hell?" he demanded. Greg noticed with no small amount of concern that Sherlock was naked. Again.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped back down onto Greg's bed.

"Dull," he said.

"You're high again."

****

 _Sleep. No. High? Maybe, don't remember. Annoyed. He's always annoyed. Angry? Not yet. Make him angry, make him hit me. Hitmehitmehitmehitme. No. Stop. Think. Focus. Breathe. Speak._

****

"Oh, brilliantly observed, _Greg_." Sherlock's voice was muffled by the pillow.

Greg sighed.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"No. Boring."

****

 _Food. Again. Boring_

****

"Oh, for the love… Come on," Greg growled, striding over to the bed and dragging the naked Sherlock out of bed and fighting him into the discarded pyjama bottoms from the night before.

"Eating's dull," Sherlock protested as Greg frog-marched him into his kitchen. "Not soup again!"

"It's all I have at the moment," Greg said, shoving him into a chair and wielding the tin opener. "I didn't exactly have time to go to the shops today, did I?"

Sherlock grumbled and subsided long enough to eat the soup.

"You have any… family?" Greg asked. "Anyone I can call?"

****

 _Family. Mycroft. Mummy. Mycroft. Shot Sweeny last night. Shot him dead_

****

"No. He'll find you," Sherlock said. "Got any cigarettes?"

"No."

"G'wan…"

"No."

Sherlock folded his arms and scowled at the scuffed tabletop.

"I don't care if you think I'm dull," Greg retorted. "What do you mean, 'he'll find me'?"

Sherlock laughed.

"You'll see," he said. "Right about … now."

There was a harsh knock at the door.

Greg glared at Sherlock and went to look out of the peephole.

Without stood a man who looked, relative to Sherlock, completely unremarkable.

Receding hairline, neat suit, waistcoat, umbrella, pinched expression.

Greg opened the door slightly.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Ah, Detective Sergeant Lestrade. So good of you to take my brother in during this difficult time. I hope he has not caused you too much inconvenience."

In a lifetime of encounters with seriously dangerous, bad people, Greg had never met somebody quite so… threatening. A flash of insight told him—or maybe it was the black car parked out front, idling—that this was not an individual to trifle with or question. Greg stiffened. Told himself to focus. He was a cop, he had presence, he could do this.

But Sherlock had come to _him_. Had asked for Greg's help. Not this man's. Greg wondered what that meant. He decided that he didn't want to know. He hoped he'd be shot of Sherlock soon. And then realized he'd never be free of the guilt if he was.

"Well, I… excuse me, but who _are_ you?" Greg asked.

"Ah, Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes' brother. May I come in and collect him? I assure you, you will be compensated for the time and expense of feeding him."

"Erm, it was only soup… And what, exactly, do you do, anyway?" Greg demanded.

"He occupies a minor position in the British Government," Sherlock said suddenly and with heavy sarcasm. He was standing in the door, still clad in only the pajama pants, limned with light from the kitchen. Greg tried not to stare. Fuck but he was gorgeous. "Mycroft."

"Sherlock. Have you decided not to make a fuss?" Mycroft asked him.

Greg's head swiveled back to Mycroft. A minor position in the British Government, indeed. The man looked like he bloody ran the place. The man looked like he belonged at MI-5, for all that.

"Not going anywhere," Sherlock grunted.

"That, Sherlock, is where you are mistaken." Mycroft leaned slightly on his umbrella. Good Christ, even the man's umbrella was perfectly and precisely folded.

"Fuck you, Mycroft."

"How long do you intend to perform this charade? I have meetings to attend today."

"Go, attend them. I'm fine right here." Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.

****

 _See if he can take me. I can stay here. Greg'll keep me. Doesn't love me. I'm a chore. Chore. Something Mycroft does to please Mummy. Of course. Mummy. Always about making Mummy happy. Well, fuck him. Fuck her. I don't want to make Mummy happy. I want…_

****

"Sherlock…" Mycroft frowned.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock mimicked.

"For once, Sherlock, could you please _not_ make a fuss?" Mycroft asked him with a weary sigh. "We can do this the easy way, or we can do this your way. It is your choice."

****

 _Yes, not make a fuss. That's always exactly what you want. ALWAYS_

****

Greg clearly heard the threat.

"Excuse me," he asked. "Just where do you think you're taking him?"

"Rehabilitation," Mycroft replied "This will be his fourth attempt, and, as he well knows, his last." A chill went down Greg's spine.

Sherlock straightened.

"What if I don't want to?" he asked.

Mycroft didn't reply.

"Now wait a minute," Greg said. "If he doesn't want to…"

"It's not your decision, Detective Sergeant," Mycroft interrupted him, glaring at Sherlock.

"Now look here," Greg began.

" _Fine_ ," Sherlock interrupted. "But it'll be _dull_. As usual. And fail. As usual."

"Perhaps, little brother," Mycroft said. "But perhaps this time will be different. Detective Sergeant, I'm sure you've seen Sherlock’s capabilities. Have you considered all the possibilities?"

"What do you mean?" Greg demanded.

"You see it, don't you, Sergeant Lestrade? The petty, small lives of the people who go about this city, day after day, minding their own business, ignoring the cesspool that lies before them. But you also see the stinking, seething mass of worthless humanity, don't you? The battles that are being waged every day – the blood, the terror, the death. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft intoned, "you see the battlefield. And you _need_ that."

From the doorway, Sherlock sniffled.

"Pull the other one, Mycroft," he said.

"Sherlock…"

"Get dressed, Sunshine," Greg interrupted. "Go with your brother. Get yourself clean. Then… come back and we'll talk." He ran his hand through his hair and sighed, wondering when his life had become so complicated. Oh yeah, when he had decided to join the drugs squad and go undercover. When he'd met this impossible, intelligent, unearthly boy, glaring at him from his own kitchen door.

Sherlock glared at them for a solid minute and then flounced into Greg's bedroom.

****

 _Demins stink. Hate demin. Hate this shirt. Hate me. Hate Mycroft. Hatehatehatehate. Don't hate Greg, though. He doesn't judge. Doesn't try to… remember he's only saving me because of Isaac. Isaac. Isaac. I'm not Isaac. Why can't it be ME? Bathroom. The chain. Isaac's. Mine. Remind him. Remember him. Remember me._

****

"I'm glad to see that you are coming around to a more sensible course of action, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said.

"I'm not…" Greg began.

"Perhaps not yet, but I would not be surprised if there are new opportunities opening for you in the very near future. Perhaps something a little less life-threatening than the drugs squad? Murder, perhaps?" Mycroft asked him with a smile.

"You're joking." Greg stared at him in disbelief.

"One thing you'll have to learn about my brother," Sherlock announced, slinking back into the room, somewhat respectably clad in filthy jeans and a t-shirt whose neck sagged nearly to his sternum. "Is that he never, ever jokes. It's one of the things that makes him so boring." He sniffed, again, the rattling, mucusy sound, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Greg noticed, with Sherlock's movement, that Isaac's chain was hanging around his neck.

He clenched his fists. How _dare_ the little shit steal…

Oh, who was he kidding?

****

 _Well? React, dammit, react. Show me. Tell me. Hit me. You want to hit me. Hitmehitmehitmehitmehitme._

****

Sherlock smirked at him. _Daring_ Greg to say something.

Mycroft looked disgusted.

"Are you coming?" he asked.

Sherlock sniffed again. "You're insisting, and here I am. Ever willing to obey my older brother."

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow.

" _Fine_. Thank you, Detective Sergeant for your hospitality," Sherlock muttered with a sniffle as they walked toward the door, brushing – deliberately, it seemed – against Greg.

If Sherlock could play at that game… Greg grabbed Sherlock's wrist as he tried to lift his wallet again.

"Not this time, Sunshine," Greg said. He turned over Sherlock's hand and grabbed a biro from his desk. "I won't spring you or anything, but if you need something…" Greg drew his hand towards him and on the back carefully printed his mobile number.

Sherlock looked down, something like disbelief crossing his face as Greg closed his fingers around his hand. Greg caught Sherlock's eye and nodded.

"Go," he said, giving him a little shove.

Mycroft nodded his head pleasantly, obviously pretending to ignore the interaction.

"Thank you again, Detective Sergeant" he said. "We will be in contact," he added, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Yeah, erm, no worries," Greg muttered at the shut door.

His sitting room was dark, only the sulfurous yellow light from the streetlamp outside, illuminating the battered sofa with the Aston Villa blanket draped over it where Sherlock had thrown it off the night before.

Apropos of nothing, it occurred to Greg that it could have been _Mycroft_ who had arranged for Sweeny's death.

The thought made him shiver and he hurried to turn on a light – to dispel the darkness.

Greg looked around. The flat felt suddenly very empty as he was left alone to contemplate the last twenty-four hours.

Unfortunately, all he could think of was Sherlock, naked in his shower. Sherlock, backlit, standing in the doorway to his kitchen, pants sliding down his hips. Sherlock, pillowed on Greg's chest, sharing a cigarette in his bed. Sherlock, rubbing his erection against Greg's thigh, begging him to fuck him. Sherlock wearing Isaac's necklace.

Greg shuddered. It would have been almost too easy to give in to Sherlock's demands. Too easy to bury himself in his willing arse. Too easy to hold him down and fuck him until he came.

Greg surveyed the cold bowl of soup on his kitchen table and sighed. Instead he grabbed the whisky bottle and headed for the shower.

There, he turned on the water as hot as he could stand it, took a swig of the whisky and stepped into the stall.

He would not think about what had happened—or hadn't happened—there last night.

Christ, he was already hard. Greg grabbed a bottle of conditioner – a legacy from Isaac – had it been six months already? Greg should really have binned it. He squirted some of the conditioner onto his hand and brought his hand to his cock, sucking in his breath at the chill.

Bracing against the tiles with one hand, he began to stroke himself, first slowly, fondling his balls, pressing his fingers against his perineum, bringing his hand back to his cock as he closed his eyes and tried not to think about Sherlock.

It was useless. All he could see was the wicked curve of Sherlock's mouth. All he could imagine was brushing his cock against those moist pink lips, watching as Sherlock sucked on the head of his cock, running his tongue along the slit before sucking him into that hot, wet mouth.

Greg increased the pace of his hand against his cock as he bit down hard on his lip in an effort keep from coming. Faster and harder he stroked, remembering the sound of Sherlock's voice, his insolent pout, imagining his hand buried in the little twat's hair, making him gasp and groan.

In his mind, he was fucking Sherlock's mouth, listening to the muffled moans and obscene slurps until suddenly, all too suddenly, Greg was coming all over his hand.

He groaned, his knees nearly buckling as his free hand scrabbled for purchase on the slick tiles.

"Fuck," he muttered as his vision cleared. He turned to face the water, flinching against the now punishing cold spray from the showerhead.

"Fuck," he said again as he cleaned himself off and turned off the tap, reaching for a towel.

Unfortunately, the one nearest to hand was the one that Sherlock had used the night before. Or, more specifically, he had used on Sherlock. Greg scrubbed his face with it, smelling the scent of the lad – the mix of Greg's soap and the cigarettes and patchouli (of course) that Greg's none-too-thorough scrubbing could not erase.

Greg groaned and tossed the towel from him, padding into his bedroom to find a pair of clean shorts and a vest.

He rolled into bed, making sure to stay on _his_ side. Making sure not to roll onto the side where Sherlock had lain. Making sure not to grab the pillow Sherlock had used and hold it to him like some soft toy.

Greg awoke the next morning, wrapped in the duvet, cuddling Sherlock's pillow, face down on the opposite side of the bed.

He rolled over and winced at the light filtering in through the curtain. His head was pounding and his heart…

Greg threw the duvet aside and stalked to the airing cupboard to find fresh sheets and towels. With a grim efficiency, he stripped the bed and dragged the sheets to the kitchen where he shoved them into the washer.

Then, he set about scrubbing down his bathroom, determined to eradicate the lingering memory of the past two nights.

* * *

Greg's transition to the murder squad and his rather swift elevation to Detective Inspector was surprising to nobody except possibly Greg himself.

Greg found that he actually _enjoyed_ the problem-solving aspects of murder investigation, if he could look past the more gut wrenching parts: the victims' families; the pain, the sorrow, the confusion, the hatred that the victims left in their wakes.

That, and the press conferences. Greg dreaded those most of all. He was perfectly comfortable pretending to be somebody he wasn't – a drugs runner, an enforcer, even a worried father—but actually sitting down in front of the press and talking about the case in terms designed specifically not to upset the British Public, giving as few details as possible and then fielding questions that he knew he couldn't and _shouldn't_ answer, terrified him.

But it wasn't until a woman was found dead in the Temple Tube Station, her fingers and two of her toes arranged around her in the fashion of the face of a clock, that things got _really_ interesting.

Or nightmarish, depending on how you looked at it.

"But is it _safe_ to travel by the Underground?" A woman asked.

"Well, as long as you keep your hands inside the carriage," Greg snapped.

Beside him, Donovan put her forehead in her hands.

"That is…" God, Greg _hated_ this.

Things were definitely taking a turn for the worse when Greg's mobile buzzed. So did all of the other mobile phones in the room.

Greg looked at his and read one word.

 _Wrong._

Donovan came to the party first.

"If you've all got texts," she called out. "Just ignore them."

Greg lifted his head.

"Next question?" he asked.

"What do you see as the possible motive for this heinous act?"

Oh, Christ.

"Well, at this point in time we are examining all angles and it would appear that this is obviously an act of somebody who is familiar with the victim… that…"

The mobiles chimed again:

 _Try a cult._

There was a stirring throughout the room. Greg stared. How did the mysterious texter with the blocked number _know_ about Sandra Brownwell's involvement in the Cult of the Red Sun?

"Please, just ignore your texts," Greg said, his stomach rolling.

"It says, 'Try a cult'," chimed one of the reporters, a ridiculously perky woman – Greg thought she looked like Rita Skeeter from the _Harry Potter_ movie.

"Yes, I _know_." Greg clung to what was left of his patience.

"Are you saying that this woman, Sandra Brownwell was involved in a cult?" asked the reporter.

"We’re not saying _anything_ ," Greg snapped, "at this time, regarding Miss Brownwell's activities."

"But is there a cult?" persisted the reporter.

"Look," Greg said, but his mobile buzzed again:

 _You need me. I'll meet you outside. SH_

Greg bit his lip. SH? Who was SH?

His mobile buzzed.

 _Sherlock Holmes. DI Gregson's warned you about me._

Greg's heart sank. And then rose. A snippet of conversation floated through his mind. A half remembered murmur from a lanky boy, snagging cigarettes in his bed and pressing his body against him.

 _Of course. I could solve every one of your silly little problems in my sleep._

"This press conference is over," he said, rising abruptly and leaving the room, Donovan hot on his heels, and the press corps chattering behind him in disbelief.

"Sir, with all due respect, what the hell…"

"Not now, Donovan."

Outside New Scotland Yard, it was pissing down rain, and leaning up against the building beneath the overhang, smoking a cigarette directly underneath a "No Smoking on Premises" sign, was Sherlock Holmes. Greg stared at him. In place of the unearthly junkie who had vomited all over his bathroom a year ago was a handsome, well-dressed young man. Greg swallowed.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I presume?" Sherlock asked, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

****

 _He recognized me. He remembers. Try to save me now? No, don’t need saving. Perfectly functional. Normal. Boring. Nothing to be ashamed of, right? Shameshameshame, not a junkie. Don't remember, don't think. Focus, FOCUS. He's looking better. For being on the Murder Squad. DS is a hostile thing, not surprising. Boyfriend's cheating on her. Look at the tension, the way she examines me. Examines all of me. Doesn't trust us. Small wonder. Gregson told me, too. Nosy parker, he is. Wonder how that could be useful. Sex. So messy. Wantitneeditstopstop. Focus._

****

"What the _hell_ are you playing at?" Greg demanded.

"Merely trying to get your attention. It was suggested to me that you might be in need of assistance."

"Yeah, you want to help _me_." Greg said.

"Naturally. I was given your business card, and it seems that you are, as is usual with the police, completely out of your depth. Now, shall we take a look at the body?"

Greg started.

"You're not serious."

"Oh, I think you'll find, Lestrade, that I am quite serious."

Bits of conversation from that evening filtered back into Greg's consciousness.

"Fine," he conceded. "But you follow my rules and you keep your mouth _shut_."

"Naturally. It will be a pleasure to work with you. D.I. Gregson had so little imagination. But you, on the other hand… I foresee a brilliant future for you and your Detective Sergeant.

"Perhaps, though, your Detective Sergeant, Donovan? I believe? Should consider finding a different boyfriend. It's such a pity that he's sleeping with your sister."

"How did you… you little freak!" Donovan exclaimed. She reached back to the back of her belt, her usual hiding place for her cuffs, only to find they were missing.

"Oi, Peterson!" she called to a uniformed officer. "Arrest him!"

Sherlock tossed away the cigarette and held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.

****

 _Caught you._

****

"All right, that's enough." Greg stepped between his furious D.S. and Sherlock.

"So, you are Gregory Lestrade, then," Sherlock said.

"Of course I am." Greg turned. "You knew that," he said, surprised.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and studied him for a long second. Greg's gaze flicked down to Sherlock's exposed neck and noticed there was no chain around it. He suddenly felt very cold.

"Did I? Only by reputation I'm afraid." Sherlock seemed to intercept the look. "Oh, that's very interesting," he said with a half-smile. "Very interesting indeed."

"What?" Greg blinked. What the hell…

Sherlock looked him up and down and then moved away, spun out of Donovan's reach and set off down the pavement.

"The mortuary first, I believe," he tossed over his shoulder at Donovan and Greg.

What the hell was going on?

It wasn't until Sherlock was poking at the fingers of the victim, examining and exclaiming over just _how_ they had been taken from her – ripped off, apparently; Donovan looked sick – that it hit Greg.

Sherlock didn't remember him.

How the fuck had that happened?

Sherlock was flying about the mortuary, exclaiming and talking wildly at the tech, a mousy woman who looked as if she wished the floor would swallow her, paying no heed whatsoever to the shocked Greg.

When he finished, he strode up to Greg and said,

"I'm surprised you didn't see it. She obviously was taking an MAOI. Someone poisoned her. Her medical history indicates depression and anxiety – the killer, her cousin, Greene, was it? Yes, Greene ground up the extra tablets and put them into her drink. Probably gave her wine without her knowing it. She was obviously so distraught over her family's disowning of her, she was ready to leave the cult. Greene didn't want her to – better a make a clean break, or she'd tell them about what he knew, and what the Red Sun cult was about to do. So he arranged for her overdose, and then when she became overcome by the combination of the drug and the wine, he drowned her in her bath. And there you have it. Make your arrest." Sherlock looked around as if expecting applause. When none was forthcoming, he gathered his ridiculous greatcoat around him, winked at the mortuary tech and flounced out, the door slamming behind him.

****

 _Easy. Simple. Even interesting. Donovan hates me. Good. Maybe he'll start looking to me now. Paying attention_

****

"What the…?" Donovan exclaimed, but before she could ask the obvious question, Greg interrupted her.

"Well, at least we can bring Greene in for questioning. He may not have been the last person to see her alive, but… it's something." He shrugged and scrubbed his hand through his hair.

"Sir, with all due respect, you're taking the word of that… _freak_?" Donovan demanded.

Greg sighed. "Yeah. I am."

"Any particular reason, sir?" Donovan asked

"Because he's _right_ , Donovan, okay? You know he's right, I know he's right, and…"

"But sir, there's not a bit of evidence…"

"I _know_ , but what else am I supposed to do? If we bring Greene in, we can question him and maybe… maybe he'll be the one we want."

Donovan looked at him like he had lost his tiny little mind. Perhaps he had. There was a long silence.

"Just bring him in, Sergeant," Greg said finally with a sigh.

Donovan shrugged.

"Yes, sir," she said, packing a world of passive-aggressive venom into the "sir."

Greg patted his pockets, looking for the crumpled packet of cigarettes he had shoved in there that morning, telling himself it would be the last morning he did so.

* * *

It turned out that Sherlock had been right. Right about everything. Greene had been the murderer, and he was trying to keep Sandra from revealing the sheer amount of money that the cult had stolen. Greg couldn't resist the surge of pride he felt as Greene was led away in handcuffs.

Sherlock had been _perfect_. Greg grinned to himself. Sherlock was a great man.

It turned into a pattern.

Sherlock, clean and sober, and apparently completely unaware of his previous history with Greg, would waltz into the Yard with unsolicited help on whatever case they were working on that Sherlock deemed interesting. He would be unfailingly rude to Donovan, Anderson, and everybody else, including Greg, and also be unfailingly _right_ about everything. Then he'd solve the case, sometimes chasing down the perpetrator himself, and disappear, leaving Greg to clean up.

Occasionally the brother appeared, made a few threats, offered Greg a bribe to keep Sherlock at arm's length, and, when Greg refused, disappeared just as quickly as Sherlock had.

And then one day, of course, it all went pear-shaped.

They were at St Bart's, arguing. Sherlock had made the mortuary technician cry, and Greg… Greg was having a very, _very_ bad day. He had agreed with the technician that the victim, a fourteen-year-old girl who'd died from a fall from the roof of her school, should be released back to her parents. Sherlock disagreed.

"No," he said to Sherlock's demand to conduct a second autopsy himself. "I'm not letting you do that. Dr Smith has released the victim's body to the family, and you're not getting it back to play your little games."

****

 _Idiot, doesn't he see? Why doesn't he see? It's the father, it's always the father, there's always something and in this case it's the father. Abusive. Drugs, maybe? No, not drugs. Those came from her friends. Trying to fit in. Can tell by the clothes she wore, the makeup. The music. The drugs, it circles back. Wanted to blend in. Curious impulse of the teenager. Why doesn't he believe me? What point is there to arguing with me? I'm right. Always right. Greg, listen. No, not Greg. Lestrade. Pay ATTENTION to me._

****

"They're not 'little games,' Lestrade," Sherlock sneered. "Even in your own limited way, you must be able to see that Dr Smith made a complete mess. Of course, the daughter was a drug user, but her parents were too blind to see. Probably because the father's been abusing her since she was seven. He's a user too, and if you can't see that, you were a worse member of the drugs squad than I thought."

Which was the point at which the door to the waiting room opened and the victim's parents walked in.

The mother, never far from tears every time Greg had spoken to her, burst into hysterical sobs as the father took three steps forward and punched Greg in the jaw. He staggered into Sherlock and slipped down to the floor. The father then turned to Sherlock, but before he could strike, Sherlock had launched himself at him and tackled him to the floor.

There he sat upon him and tore back the man's shirtsleeve.

"You _see_?" he'd crowed to Greg. "Track marks. I was right. And I'm right about the abuse, too. Aren't I, Mr Hunt?"

****

 _Pay attention, Greg. See it. See me. Memememe. Stop. Stop it. No, need a hit. No. You're WRONG._

****

It took Donovan and two uniformed officers to untangle the mess that erupted. Greg sustained, in addition to the blow to the jaw, several bruised ribs. Sherlock emerged with barely a scratch on him, but Mr Hunt had a broken wrist (thanks to Sherlock). It also transpired that Mr Hunt had _not_ been abusing his daughter, and that what Sherlock had taken for track marks was, in fact scarring from an IV injection site when Mr Hunt had been undergoing cancer treatment the year before.

Greg's supervisor was, understandably, very angry, and the twenty minutes Greg spent in her office were some of the most uncomfortable in his life. He escaped with a strong warning and a note in his file and instructions to keep his "freelance cowboys" away from this work. It was a bloody miracle he hadn't lost his job.

The worst, though, was yet to come, as Greg ran into Sherlock, smoking (as usual) beneath the "No Smoking" sign at the entrance to the Yard.

"You're done," Greg said. "Finished."

"Oh, please, Lestrade," Sherlock scoffed. "You need me."

"Not at the price of my job, I don't. Go away, Sherlock. Go on, get stuffed. I'm done with you, and I'm done with your methods. You failed, Sherlock. Utterly failed, and we are finished."

Without another word, Greg turned up his collar and walked into the drizzle to the bus stand, leaving Sherlock staring after him.

****

 _Freak. You were wrong. I was right. No. Wrong. You lost, freak. He'll never look at you again. Freak. Loser. Idiot. Stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid stupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupid. Need a hit. Clean now. Don't need the drugs. He's walking away. He's not looking at me. Why's he angry? I was right. Wrong. He doesn't care about me. He cares about Isaac. I'm not Isaac. If I were Isaac, he'd be here. He'd forgive me. I'm sorry I'm so stupid. Stupidsorrystupidstupidsorrysorrystupidsorry. Hit hit me hit me make me bleed, need a hit hit hit._

****

Furious with himself and bitterly disappointed, Greg smoked two packets of cigarettes that night and broke at least one set of crockery before he sank to the sofa in his sitting room to contemplate Sherlock's and _his_ failure.

How the fuck had he been so blind? How had he allowed Sherlock so much access? He was an amateur – the police don't consult amateurs. He was reckless, dangerous, and … it hit Greg so hard it stole his breath.

 _Sherlock had been high the whole time._

Fuck. Was it not enough that he could get his kicks trailing Greg, showing off to the rest of the Force, insulting Donovan and himself? No, he had to fucking do it when he was fucking high.

Greg groaned and let his head sag back against the sofa.

How could Sherlock _do_ that?

How?

* * *

It was very late when Greg managed to get home, a week later. The Hunt case was moving along, he was almost done with the issues surrounding the pending lawsuit that they were filing (thanks to the Yard's very competent lawyers), but still, it had been a long, long day – complete with him getting caught in the middle of the Donovan, Desiree, Martin fight and another reprimand from his supervisor.

His head hurt. He had smoked too many cigarettes in the alley behind the Yard (and been caught by said Supervisor). And now he desperately wanted a drink.

But the worst of it, the part that nearly destroyed him, was that today was Isaac's birthday. Funny how his birthday was what always hit Greg the hardest. Not the anniversary of the day he died. Or the anniversary of the day that Greg had gone to see him, after he'd been buried, but his birthday.

Wounds imperfectly healed tended to fester. Wounds healed imperfectly tended to leave scars. Wounds healed imperfectly tended to cause pain again.

It had become a bit of a ritual, actually – make sure he wasn't on rota the next morning, get drunk on Isaac's birthday, smoke too many cigarettes, stare at the wall, cry.

Which was why, three drinks in, when his mobile buzzed on the kitchen table, he almost didn't answer it.

But answer it he did.

"Greg?" The voice was tiny, soft. Greg might not have even recognized it if it hadn't been punctuated by a loud sniffle.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"Yeah. Greg… I need you. Please."

"What? Where are you?"

A sniffle.

"I don't know… I took something and I don't…" There was a shuffling. "I'm in an alley. I'm in… I don't… I saw a sign, Opal Court."

If Greg was smart, he thought, he'd hang up now and let the little shit stew. Let him get mauled by gang members, or his ex-dealer, or an evil nana coming home from her bingo night.

"Greg… I'm sorry. Please."

"Okay, what happened?"

"I don't know… You didn't call… I… there was a man… oh, God…" The sniffle again. "Greg, just come. Please."

"Okay, Opal Court, Opal Court _where_?"

"South… Brixton, Lambeth…"

"Okay, hang on…" Greg grabbed for his A to Zed and started flipping through the pages. Opal Court was a little hole in the wall near the Crystal Palace tube. Greg looked at the time. Ten-thirty.

"Greg…"

"Hang on, Sunshine," Greg said. "I'm coming."

"Okay. _Hurry_."

Greg threw his mac on against the drizzling February rain and ran out and down the block to his car. Even with his blue police light on the dash, it took him over an hour to navigate his way down from Finsbury Park south to the river and then in the warren of streets in Lambeth and Brixton.

He missed Opal Court twice. On the third time around the corner, he saw a thin figure hunched against a low brick wall. _Sherlock_.

"Sherlock!" Greg braked hard in front of him and Sherlock raised his head. He was bleeding again, this time from the nose, the expensive shirt Greg had seen the week before filthy, and in the light of the streetlamp, he could see the blood and the snot running down Sherlock's nose and chin, dripping onto his shirt. "Oh, shit, shit, shit…" Greg started to curse and threw the car into park, catapulting himself out of it.

Sherlock tried to stand, but his legs buckled as Greg reached him, catching him before he hit the pavement again.

"Greg," Sherlock whispered. "You came."

****

 _You came for me. You remembered. You heard me. You're not angry. You said no. You meant no. But you came. Love you. Need you. Why do you think you don't need me? Isaac, isn't it? I'm wearing his chain. Do you remember? You let me keep it? No, I stole it. Thief, liar. Need it, need you. Why don't you need me? Why are you here? Do you care? Do you remember? Please, Greg. Remember me. Help me. Tell me._

****

Even in the dim light, Greg could see Sherlock was coming down from whatever high he'd been on. His hands were shaking, his body tensing and relaxing, his head lolling back, rolling on those thin shoulders as if his neck would snap.

Greg moved his hand to cradle Sherlock's neck and felt something metallic at the back of his head.

Isaac's necklace caught on his fingers. Greg caught his breath. How long had it been since that morning when Sherlock had lifted it from him? He should let the little fucker rot.

"Greg… Greg please… Take me home," Sherlock begged.

****

 _Take me to your home. Your bed. Make it be our bed. Need you you you you you you_

****

He couldn't. Not only because Mycroft would be on him, but also… well, Greg shut down that line of thought. Better not examine too closely _why_ against all reason and logic, he was out in Brixton in the middle of the fucking night, cuddling Sherlock Holmes.

"Okay… it's okay, Sunshine," Greg murmured. "I'm here."

Even at this hour, passers-by were beginning to gather.

"Take me home," Sherlock begged again.

"Yeah, okay, where's home?"

"No… not… roommate, party… your home."

"Oh, no," Greg started to say.

"Please."

"A&E is the place for you."

"Greg… can't… won't… call Mycroft… please."

Beneath the streetlamp, Sherlock began to go limp, his curiously light eyes going blank.

"Fuck. Sherlock, no, hang on…"

Greg heaved them both to their feet and managed to sling him towards his idling car and into it.

"Come on, Sherlock." Greg chivvied him into his seatbelt and an old blanket in the back. "Let's go home." He grabbed a handful of tissues. "Hold that to your nose," he instructed. "Tilt your head back."

"Knew you'd come," Sherlock said a loud sniffle, partially muffled by the wad of tissues.

"Yeah, you know… regular Good Samaritan, me," Greg muttered.

"No, I knew. Knew you can't stay away from me."

"Shut up," Greg growled, looking over at the blanket-wrapped Sherlock. "Or I will throw you out of this car."

Thankfully, Sherlock subsided after that, until they reached Greg's flat.

* * *

"Soup again?" Sherlock asked after Greg had cleaned him up.

"Don't have time to shop, do I? And suppose you explain to me just how you seem to remember every detail of that night _now_ , but not when we're out in front of New Scotland Yard?"

Sherlock shrugged and spooned some of the creamy tomato soup into his mouth.

"What's that mean?" Greg demanded.

"It means…" Sherlock shrugged again. "I need a shower," he said, lurching from his chair. "Care to join me?"

****

 _He wants me. He still does. I want him. Thank him. Pay him back. Hate tomato soup. Hate myself. Need him. Want him. Need him to tell me. Tell me he loves me. Doesn't he care? He does care. He'd not be here. Why is he staring at me? What did I say?_

****

Greg stared at him.

"No," he finally said. "I would not."

Sherlock fixed him with a steady look.

****

 _He does want me. He's lying_

****

"You're lying," he said.

"No, as a matter of fact, I'm not. I'm not in the habit of sleeping with junkies, I'll have you know."

Sherlock sniffed.

"Feeble," he replied. "You've been half hard ever since you sponged off my face in the bathroom. You're imagining what it would be like to suck my cock. You're thinking about fucking me right now, as a matter of fact."

"Sherlock…" Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, irritation and anger welling up inside of him. "It's late. I'm tired. I'm letting you stay here as a favor. Don't push your luck."

Sherlock sniffed.

"You keep telling yourself that," he said to Greg and winked at him.

Greg flopped into a kitchen chair and grabbed for the half-empty whisky bottle and his cigarettes. Listening to the shower, in truth a bit more than half-hard, he sat at his kitchen table, feeding himself whisky with one hand and nicotine with the other until he heard the water shut off and Sherlock's steps.

He tensed, waiting for Sherlock to pass by the kitchen on the way to the sitting room sofa, where he'd laid out a pillow and the old Aston Villa blanket. Nothing.

Greg stubbed out his last cigarette and shuffled to his bedroom.

There, in the same pyjama bottoms he'd appropriated the last time, lay Sherlock across his bed, fast asleep.

Greg sighed and began to unbutton his shirt. He pulled off his shoes and socks and trousers and stumbled toward the shower.

Five minutes later, before he fell asleep under the spray, he turned off the water and used the still-damp towel Sherlock had draped over the sink. It smelled of _him_.

Fuck.

Greg yanked on a pair of shorts and returned to the bedroom and yanked the duvet out from under Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled over. In the half-light, Greg could see his smirk.

"It's cold in here," Greg muttered. "And don't you have somewhere else to sleep?"

"Why? When I can sleep right here?" Sherlock asked. "It's what you want, anyway."

"Stop talking about what you think I want," Greg snapped, sitting on the edge of the bed and glaring at him.

"I _know_ what you want."

"Fuck you do."

"Of course I do." Sherlock stretched forward and Greg pretended he wasn't staring at his lean body, the muscles under the shoulders rippling as he crawled toward him. "I know exactly what you want. And you want me."

His hand was on Greg's cock.

Greg shoved it away.

"You're lying, Greg, you do want me."

"No. I … Okay, look, stop. This isn't…" Sherlock's lips were on his mouth, his tongue teasing him.

Fuck. When was the last time he'd… Isaac. With Isaac.

He would _not_ give in to this.

The kid needed him. Needed him to say no. To set the limits. To set limits on the impossible wraith of a man who was winding himself around him.

Christ, Sherlock was practically _radiating_ need.

Greg wasn't going to take advantage of this. He couldn't. He was a good man. A man who didn't take advantage of…

Sherlock’s hand was on Greg's cock.

Greg caught his breath as the light in the room seemed to grow dim.

"Please," murmured Sherlock. "Please."

There was a moment of stillness and then…

He shouldn’t do this. He was a good man. A good man.

A good man whose cock was suddenly enveloped by a warm, wet mouth.

Fuck, it had been ages.

And hadn't he suffered enough at the hands of this ethereal, beautiful, frustrating, maddening, sexy, gorgeous, fucked-up man?

Didn't he deserve …

And he might be high, but Sherlock could do amazing things when he was high.

And it wasn't as if Greg was a fucking saint.

Oh, that was good. A fucking saint.

He wasn't even Catholic.

Greg's hand was in his hair, pulling him up. Lips, tongue and teeth collided as he attacked Sherlock's mouth.

 

****

 _Why not? You want me. I know you do. Want me. Take me. Make me._

 _Please, make me make me. Kiss me. Kiss you. Lips. Thighs, stomach. Push pull away. No. Yes. Shorts. Down. Pull, pull, no. Yes. Yesyesyesyes._

 _Cock. Beautiful. Thick. Want it. In my hand, in my mouth, in my arse._

 _Cock, skin, heat. YES. Was right. Of course I'm right. I'm always right._

 _Tastes good. Spit. Smell. Scent. Hair. Scrotum. Thigh. Tongue. Hand. Smell. Taste. He tastes good. Sogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogood._

 _Hands in my hair, pull, tug, you want this. You want to fuck me. You don't care if I get off._

 _Pull me, push you. Hair, skin, legs, mouth, tongue, taste of whisky, cigarettes._

 _God, so goodgoodgoodgoodgoodgood. Right, right, right. Truth. Knew him. Knew him. Want him._

 _Mouth, cock… fuck… please fuck me fuck me fuck me._

 _Fingers. Lube. Condoms? Condoms, of course, careful. Can't be too careful, don't know where I've been._

 _Why isn't he saying no? Stop me. Stop him. I need him to, fuck, yes._

 _Burn. Pain. Hit me. Make me. Cock. Arse. Pain, pain, good. Hands. Cock. Feels right. Now, Greg, please. Oh, Godgodgodgod._

 _Freak. Freak. Freak. Not him. Can't be him. Won't be him. Will never be him. Want to be him. Can't be. Can't be. Can't be._

 _Wrong._

 _Freak._

 _Harder._

 _Make me._

 _Make me come._

 _Fuck me._

 _Please._

 _Watch._

 _Look._

 _See me._

 _Help me._

 _Fuck me._

 _Save me._

 _Save me._

 _Save me._

 _Greg, please._

 _See me._

 _Save me._

****

They lay for moments, bound by sweat. Sticky with semen, hot breath ghosting over bare skin.

"I'm not him," Sherlock broke the silence.

"Get out."

"I can't be him."

"Get out."

"I'll never be…"

"FUCKING LEAVE!"

* * *

The rain gritted against the windows, lashing the panes.

At least it was cool. Greg set his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, begging himself to focus.

"Sir?"

"Not now, Donovan."

"It's Gregson, sir. He's got something for you about the Hunt case."

"What?" Greg peeled himself away from the window.

"With all due respect, sir, you look like hell."

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"Apparently the father was using. The police pulled him over in Birmingham. Found cocaine in his car. Freak was right."

Greg felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.

"His name is Sherlock," he told Donovan. "Sherlock."

Donovan gave him a hard look and walked away.

* * *

The text came three weeks later.

 _If you check the victim's bedroom, you will find the murder weapon was her diary._

Greg ran the number and came up with a pre-paid mobile.

He did check the victim's bedroom and discovered that in fact there were traces of blood and hair on the victim's diary. As he stood in the lab, squinting at the book through the polystyrene, another text blipped onto his mobile:

 _So it should be obvious that you should arrest her boyfriend._

Greg sighed. The suspicion that had crept into his brain when he received the first text stood up and became a full-blown idea.

Returning to his office, he was not entirely surprised to discover Sherlock Holmes sitting in his chair, poking at his computer.

"Get off my computer," Greg snapped.

"Have you arrested her boyfriend?"

"Depends. Got any decent evidence other than your crazy suppositions?"

"They're not suppositions. They're _facts_. Facts you should be able to see if you weren't completely blind to the obvious."

"Tell me."

"The boyfriend came over when the parents weren't home."

"Right. Neighbor saw him."

"They had sex."

"Yes, post-mortem confirms that."

"She went to wash up and he looked in her diary."

"How…"

" _Obvious_. It was in her nightstand next to the condoms. Right?"

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.

"And his prints are on it, right?"

"Yes."

"So… she came back, finds him reading it, perhaps there was another lover? Or she's planning to break up with him? Or…"

"Another lover, yeah."

"YES! Right, so… argument, jealous rage, he hits at her with the diary, she falls and hits her head on the edge of the desk and then… did you check the middle pages? Ink's smudged. She was suffocated with it." Sherlock sat back and smirked at him.

"Which pages?" Greg asked, scarcely believing that he was asking.

"I'd imagine that if you look at the entries where she compares her two boyfriends, you'll find the evidence you need."

Greg stared at him. Sherlock flapped his hands.

"Go, Detective Inspector, make your arrest."

"Sir?" Donovan stuck her head in Greg's office and stopped, glaring at Sherlock. "Freak."

"Sergeant. How're the corns?"

Before Donovan could explode, Greg steered her by the shoulder out of his office.

"Come on," he said to Donovan, trying to ignore the feeling of Sherlock's stare boring into his back, "let's go back down to forensics."

****

 _Do you see me now? Do you hear me now?_

****

  


* * *

It usually started with a text from an unknown number. Usually during a press conference. The stunt that he pulled with the serial suicides got on Greg's tits especially.

"He's making us look like idiots," Donovan complained.

Back in his office, Greg replied to the text with a succinct "Fuck off."

He immediately regretted it.

The answer came at once:

 _Fine. But you need me._

* * *

It was the sort of thing that Greg would have thought would be right up Sherlock's alley. But there wasn't a murmur.

Greg finally broke down and looked up Sherlock's arrest record.

Nothing.

In a panic, a panic that he'd never admit, Greg rang all the A&E departments in the city of London and called all of his old mates on the Drugs Squad.

Nothing.

Finally, a note appeared on his desk: _Montague Street. Perhaps you can convince him to find better accommodations while you're at it?_

The note was written on fine paper and with, from what Greg could determine, a fountain pen. It didn't take much for Greg to put the evidence together:

Mycroft.

Convinced he was using again, uncertain why he cared so damn much, Greg grabbed a uniformed officer and a car and, siren blaring, drove to Montague Street as fast as he could.

Sherlock's bedsit was on the top floor of an absolutely filthy building, one that probably should have been condemned in the last century. Telling the officer to stay in the car, Greg ran into the building.

In a bedsit piled high with books, papers, a skull, and other bizarre items (including a riding crop), Sherlock lounged on a mattress in pyjama pants, a t-shirt, and a silk dressing gown.

****

 _Did you think I had died? Overdosed? Did you miss me? Do you need me? Do you even see me? You're not sleeping. Why aren't you sleeping? Do you worry about me? About them? They're dead, they can't be hurt anymore. It's the living who are the problem. Greg, do you need me?_

****

"Lestrade." Sherlock didn't look to the door, but continued his study of the peeling and moldy ceiling. "Was there something?"

"Erm…" Greg had never felt so wrong-footed in his life. "Well, you sent those texts. And… I thought…Do you really _live_ here?"

"Boring. As to the other case, the one that's been transferred to Gregson, the brother did it. Yes. I do. It's what I can afford and, up until now, the _police_ didn't harass me."

"I'm not _harassing_ you. I'm checking to make sure…"

"To make sure of what, Lestrade?"

"Do you know what?" Greg snapped. "Never mind. Just… just forget it."

"Gregson's victim was beaten with a riding crop, wasn't he?" Sherlock asked, his gaze still on the ceiling.

"Yeah." Greg turned. "And the victim was… how old?"

"Sixty-two."

"Ah… And the brother?"

"Said he found him beneath the hedge at eleven forty-five. About twenty minutes after proposed time of death."

"Tricky."

"Yeah, we thought so," Greg said with a no small amount of sarcasm.

"Hmmm."

"Will you help us?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Fine. Yes. Although it'll hardly be worth my time."

"Right. Of course. Because it's obvious."

"Yes, as a matter of fact it is. The first thing, of course, is to check the brother's alibi. And then… Oh, what's the point, you'll never believe me unless I prove it to you."

Sherlock rolled off the mattress and grabbed for trousers.

"Do you mind?" he asked Greg with a pointed look.

"You'll come to the Yard, then?" Greg asked. "I'll wait…"

"No, I'm going to Bart's. Have to check something first."

"Look, I don't…"

"Do you want my help or not?"

****

 _Because when I needed yours… No. I offered. You took what I offered. You would have been a fool not to. But now. Would you take it now?_

****

"Yes. God help me."

"That's better," Sherlock said with a vulpine grin. "You need me."

"Sherlock…"

"Now go away, I'll be in touch within a few hours." Sherlock began to pace the tiny space. "Where did I put it?"

"Sherlock…"

"WHAT?"

"I… erm… nothing," Greg finished lamely, scratching the back of his head.

****

 _You're worried. Why? Since when did you actually CARE?_

****

"I'm moving out, if that's what's concerning you. The building's condemned, anyway. I have a connection to a flat in Baker Street. 221 B, you'll want the address. As soon as I find a flat share, I'll be gone. Apparently, I'm a difficult man to live with."

"I couldn't guess." Greg immediately felt guilty as Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at him.

The moment stretched between them.

****

 _What did I do wrong? Is it because I'm not Isaac? Or is it because I'm Sherlock?_

****

"Fine. Text me. I have _work_ to do," Greg finally said, turning to the door. In the car, he slumped in the passenger seat and rubbed his temples. The look of surprise and hurt on Sherlock's face tore at him.

He wasn't surprised, or he shouldn't have been, he supposed, to receive a text a few hours later that read:

 _If brother has green ladder, arrest brother._

 _SH_

* * *

Of course, the next day, everything went to hell.

"They've found another one. Another suicide," Donovan announced.

"Of _course_ ," Greg groaned. "Who and where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. A woman. Apparently, she left a note."

"A note?" Greg stared at her.

"Yeah. Serial suicides, and now a note. Freak would love this."

"I'll get him."

"I was kidding!"

"Donovan, I don't have any leads. I need him."

"No, sir, you don't. May I speak privately with you?" Donovan steered him to his office and shut the door.

"Okay, Sergeant, gimme."

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"

"I'm not having this conversation with you, Donovan."

"Sir."

"Okay, fine. No."

"You are!"

"Sergeant…"

"You've been in love with him for the last five years, letting him tromp all over our investigations, insult you, insult Anderson, insult me – all for what?"

"He's also brilliant, Donovan. Have you forgotten that part? He's fucking brilliant and, if you haven't noticed, I'm fucking desperate. People are dying, Donovan, and if I have to use him to help stop them, then I will."

"Look. Sir. He's unreliable. He let you down over the Hunt case. He'll do it again. And one day, sir, with respect, if you're not careful, he'll hurt you, and he'll hurt all of us. He's a freak and a psychopath and…"

"I've heard your opinion, Sergeant. Thank you. Now call a car, we're going to Baker Street."

"Sir… I just don't want to see…"

"Donovan!"

She glared at him, threw open the door and shouted for Peters to get the car ready.

* * *

"…It's a drugs bust…

"…Technically they're volunteers, but they're very keen…

"…It stops being pretend if I find anything…

"…ANDERSON, turn your back."…

"…Why would he do that?… _Why would he not do that? You're a fool. Donovan was right. Dammit._

"…I've known him for five years, and no…

"…Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one…" _God help me, that's the truth. As if God would… Not for you, Greg. Not for you…_

 _Am I a good man? Does it even matter anymore? Did it ever?_

* * *

Then there was John – John, who called Sherlock "fascinating" and "brilliant" – John, who followed Sherlock wherever he would lead. John, who shot a man for Sherlock. John, who… _No, Greg. You had your chance. Your moment_.

People didn't die of broken hearts.

Fewer people actually _had_ broken hearts.

Greg was one of those people.

And then the bombings started: The old woman; the kid; the phone and the pips…

Greg couldn't remember a time when he'd been so strung out. Tired. Worried. And then it stopped. It all stopped. And Greg thought he could finally, _finally_ sleep.

* * *

The call came as he was just heading to bed.

"Building just went up." Donovan sounded muffled. "Acton. Public pool."

The world pitched forward and righted itself. And in that terrible instant, Greg knew he'd lost.

He would always remember the rest of the night: the rain, Donovan's worried look as he ran from the patrol car, the smell of smoke and the heat of the flames.

He would always remember the uniformed officers trying to hold him back.

He would always remember heaving the chunk of concrete to one side and catching a glimpse of a pale hand.

He would always remember Mycroft Holmes pulling him away as he collapsed against him, sobbing.

He would always remember being bundled into the car, being bandaged by Mycroft's assistant as they followed the ambulance to the hospital.

In the rain, Greg staggered from the car after Mycroft.

He would always remember standing shoulder to shoulder with the man as the doctors fought for John's life – and Sherlock's.

He would always remember the tears that tracked down Mycroft's cheeks as the doctors told them that Sherlock would live.

He would always remember Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, his posh voice warning him that if he ever hurt his brother…

He would always remember standing alone in the corridor as, supported by his assistant, Mycroft left the hospital.

* * *

Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, Sherlock looked grey. Greg took a deep breath and made himself focus. His knees were hurting. His hands. His heart.

"There is no way that he should have survived," Sherlock whispered, looking across the narrow aisle to the other bed where John slept, his breathing regulated by a respirator.

Greg closed his eyes against the sight of John Watson, pale and fragile in the bed. Rain lashed against the window. He turned and glanced at it, noticing in the reflection the scrapes on his jaw, the widening bruise on his cheek. He grasped the end of John's bed, his knuckles white. There was a gash on the back of the left hand, hurriedly bandaged.

The white of the bandage was already mottled with dirt and dust and blood from where he'd swiped the hand across his brow.

The whole room was a study in whites and hospital blue and the deep red of the IV bag that sustained John.

"Fuck," Greg said. Thunder rumbled.

"Sit _down_ , Lestrade," Sherlock said, his voice weak, reedy. "You'll fall. I don't think we need a _third_ casualty."

Greg ran his hand through his hair. It came away filthy: dust and ash and dirt. Christ, he stank.

"Lestrade…"

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender and stumbled to the straight chair between the two beds.

"Fine," he said. "If it'll make you shut up for once."

****

 _Do you remember the last time you said that to me?_

****

Sherlock grimaced. Or perhaps it was the light. Apparently deciding that he'd tormented Greg enough for one night, he closed his eyes, leaving Greg alone with the gentle hiss-pop of the respirator and his thoughts. The clock on the wall read four-twenty. The sun would be rising soon. He should go home and shower. No, he should go to the Yard and start trying to sort the mess that this had become. He should get some coffee. He should…

How long he'd been asleep, he didn't dare guess, but his head was pillowed on the thin hospital mattress, and his hand was grasping flesh. Beneath his hand and the hand he was holding, there was small movement.

Greg opened his eyes – they felt as if they'd been cemented together – and lifted his head.

Sherlock slept, reaching out with hand to grasp Greg's filthy, work-roughened one.

As Greg moved, so did Sherlock.

"Good morning, Sunshine," whispered Sherlock with a smile, tightening his fingers around Greg's.

Greg's face was wet.

"Are you going to throw a shoe at me again?" Sherlock asked. Greg started. No, it wasn't possible. Painkillers? No. He couldn't be… He _was_.

"You're high," Greg accused him. "How the fuck did you manage to get high? I thought…"

"Not high at all," Sherlock replied, across at the sleeping John. "But if you like, you can buy me cigarettes and call me 'Sunshine'. For old time's sake."

****

 _I remember. Do you?_

****

Greg blinked. He thought that after the drugs bust, after the years of being tugged and pulled in different directions by Sherlock—high or sober, it didn't matter which,—that he'd got over it. That he couldn't be affected by this.

That he wasn't still in love with Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Sherlock's thumb brushed over Greg's torn knuckles, and Greg looked up into those ice-grey eyes.

"What…"

"I've always remembered, Gregory Simon Lestrade," Sherlock whispered.

"And?" Greg asked.

"You've always been a good man."

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. A million and a half thanks to the team that made this possible - AnnieTalbot, Bluestocking79, Machshefa, Mundungus42, and Pyjamapants.
> 
> Written for the holmestice summer exchange where the request was for some form of Lestrade/Sherlock – perhaps that Lestrade was the one who took Sherlock out of his chemical dependency. This ended up being quite a bit more complex than I had first intended, and to date has been one of the most challenging writing projects I've taken on.


End file.
